Was being chased by some thugs, so I got into a car with a sharp-dressed lady offering a ride. This was apparently an episode of Doctor Who I had only read about online, and the driver was a notorious character by the name of Mrs. Foster. The black car was so small (not too unusual, however, for England), I couldn’t fit into the passenger seat completely and hung out the side as she spun through traffic, literally drifting backwards while being pursued. We stopped at a small office where she took me inside to reveal her secret: there were many different “versions” of her, clones, all at different ages. One was an old woman scientist who had developed the technology, another was a mother carrying a child for an infertile couple. This was how they justified their mischief. Just then a car arrived bringing bad news, in the form of two men whom I tried to keep out by closing a folding curtain the kind that separate banquet halls in hotels. One spoke with a Gaelic accent I could barely understand and insisted on seeing Mrs. Foster. He towered over me by at least a foot but I resisted and asked if he was a policeman; the other said no, but they were on their way. In the lobby behind them sat the rest of their party, and among them was Dr. Gregory House, to whom I pleaded—what’s your take on the moral outcome here? It was the right strategy, because he began a flashback to a case with an unhappy ending for the parents.
Leave a Reply